


big plans

by mixtapestar



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, M/M, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixtapestar/pseuds/mixtapestar
Summary: Quentin is horny. And what hereallywants—can't stop thinking about—is to be fucked.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 25
Kudos: 108
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	big plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LivviBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivviBee/gifts).



Quentin hasn't hooked up with anyone for over two months, and he's starting to get antsy about it. It's not that he doesn't think he'd have options, it's just that he's never quite mastered the art of approaching someone he barely knows with the end goal of sex. Most of his past partners had been friends first, but after the awkwardness he faced after breaking up with Alice, Quentin doesn't want to muddy those waters again.

Also, it doesn't help that what Quentin _really_ wants—can't stop thinking about—is a thick, solid dick fucking into him.

Alice had been willing to try pegging during the whole three weeks they'd dated, but she clearly wasn't that into it. Plus, she'd always chosen the smallest option. That wasn't why they broke up—Quentin could always use his properly sized toys on himself when needed—but it was nice to know he wouldn't have to see her wrinkle her nose the next time he wanted to be fucked.

Which, again, was like yesterday, so Quentin throws caution to the wind and goes to Margo for advice. He finds her in the dining room, a can of La Croix fizzing on the table while she flips absently through a magazine.

"Hey, Margo? Can I ask you something out of, like, bi solidarity, without you thinking I'm a total creep?" Quentin asks, and Margo looks up at him briefly before giving him an absent wave to go on. Right. Might as well go for it, then. "Who's, like, the biggest non-straight guy at Brakebills?"

Margo sets down her magazine, brow arching. "I'm assuming we're not talking about muscles," she says, her lips tipping up into a smile.

Quentin rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance so that he won't blush harder. "No."

"Oh, honey. I'm really surprised you haven't heard by now," she says, picking up her drink and leaning back in her chair.

"What d'you mean?"

"It's Eliot."

Quentin's mouth goes dry. No. The most unattainable guy who Quentin already has an impossible crush on _could not_ be the answer. "I heard that Nature guy, Nate, was pretty big though."

Margo shakes her head, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and her head propped in her hands. "Eliot's got him beat by like, at least an inch," she whispers, grinning.

Well, now Quentin's mouth isn't dry anymore because it's _fucking watering_. He's seen Nate's dick. It hadn't been on purpose, just a glance in the changing rooms at South, and he wasn't even sure Nate was queer, but— _bigger_?

"Look at _you_ ," Margo says, delighted. "I never would have taken you for a size queen."

Fuck, now Quentin is _sure_ he's blushing. "I'm not—I just—ugh, whatever. I just like to get _fucked_. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Of course not. But you can _get fucked_ with a perfectly good six inches, if the owner of those inches knows what they're doing. But you didn't ask me about the best lay. You asked who's _biggest_." She narrows her eyes, and Quentin wishes he'd grabbed a drink, so at least he'd have something to do with his hands. "You know, I've seen the way you look at Eliot. Seems like this would be a win/win for you."

Quentin feels a panic rising in his chest. "I don't _look_ at him," he says, so intent on keeping his voice even that he takes a moment to realize what he's said. "I mean, you know. Not like _that_." Margo's expression tells him she doesn't believe him for a second. "Okay, fine. But, look. It's never gonna happen."

"Why not?" Margo asks, looking serious.

Quentin shakes his head. He wishes he knew, really. "It's just not. You've seen the type of guys he takes upstairs. I don't—" He shakes his head again. He's not gonna do this here; it's bad enough when he goes through it in a spiral inside his own head.

"Alright," Margo allows, still studying him intently. "So with those limitations in mind—"

"Here you both are," Eliot says, strolling in from the kitchen. Quentin's face warms, trying to run over the last minute of dialogue in his head to figure out how incriminating it'd be if overheard. "I was beginning to think no one worthwhile was around."

Eliot moves behind Quentin, _thank god_ , giving Quentin the chance to send a look to Margo, begging her silently to _please_ not say anything about Eliot or big dicks.

"Quentin was just wondering who the best lay on campus was," Margo says, looking proud of herself. Quentin sighs. It could've been worse.

Eliot hums."Present company excluded, I assume."

"Assume away," Margo says, smirking.

Eliot takes the seat next to him, thinking it over, and Quentin takes the opportunity to glare at Margo. She doesn't look like she cares, though. "There's Angela, the illusionist in our year. She's got a good reputation."

Margo tilts her head back and forth. "True, we had a few good nights together. But I think she mostly just hooks up with women these days."

"Ah, too bad, Q," Eliot says, and Quentin nods helplessly, looking for a way out of this conversation.

Margo just keeps _going_. "There was also some talk of Nate—you know, the Nature kid—but do we think he's straight?"

Eliot goes tense for a second, but he rallies so quickly, Quentin wonders if it was in his head. "Hmm, unsure, but definitely looks like a bad time. You can do better, trust me."

"It was just a random question," he tries, desperate to leave now. "And obviously a subjective one," he says, narrowing his eyes at Margo again, "so just forget I asked."

He lets them tease him a little more, knowing that leaving immediately would only make it worse. But then he mumbles something about homework and they let him go, still gossiping about their past sexcapades.

***

At the next Cottage party just a few nights later, Quentin decides he's gonna approach Nate, because hell, it's worth a shot, and he just wants to get fucked by a dick he didn't have to put there himself.

His plans, however, get derailed when Eliot insists he needs help preparing drinks for the masses, something that he does every single week on his own. Quentin is a little annoyed at first, but it's fun to watch Eliot work, and to help out when he can. He'd never really realized how _involved_ the drink-making process was, and it's impressive how Eliot makes something that both looks and tastes amazing every time.

Quentin thinks he's free to go once Eliot steps away from the bar, but Eliot takes him by the elbow, steering him across the room into a conversation with Margo and a few others Quentin recognizes from past parties. He's happy to be included, and eventually feels less awkward when he makes a quiet joke about Professor Mayakovsky and his ropes and everybody laughs, Eliot and Margo included.

"Come with me," Eliot says sometime later, steering Quentin by the elbow again, moving toward the window seats this time. He stops in a relatively quiet space and opens his mouth to say something, but his eyes dart quickly over Quentin's shoulder.

"Hi, Eliot," comes an eager voice from behind Quentin, and he turns to see an illusionist from his year—Bruce?—looking back at Eliot reverently. "That drink you made me was amazing. Think maybe you could make me another?"

Quentin turns back to Eliot, knowing how this song and dance usually goes from here. He's about to make his excuses to step away, but Eliot shakes his head. "It was just a whiskey sour," he says, dismissive. "Google it. The bar is open."

Bruce frowns and moves off, probably as surprised at the rejection as Quentin is. "You usually have your sights on somebody by now," he says, realizing as the words escape his mouth that he's tipping his hand about how much he's been watching.

"Mm, that's true. I do," Eliot says, and takes a step forward. Quentin's breath catches; he's so close that he can smell Eliot's aftershave.

He clears his throat, wondering what's going on, but before he gets a chance to ask, Eliot is leaning down, bringing their lips together. Quentin makes a tiny noise of surprise and stumbles, but Eliot's hand is there on his elbow, and the other one comes up to cup the back of his neck, and Quentin _melts_. Eliot is kissing him; he tastes like mint and bourbon, and his lips are so _soft_ , and _Eliot is kissing him_. Quentin feels like his whole body is on fire as he moves in closer, pushing up on his toes and wrapping his arms around Eliot as he deepens the kiss.

Eliot pulls back, seconds, maybe minutes later, rubbing his thumb over Quentin's nape. "Should we head upstairs?" he asks, his smirk destroying something inside Quentin. "Margo gave me some hints about your little quest. Well—your quest."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, though Quentin knows something's not right immediately. He runs the phrases through in his head again, and then with a jolt of horror, he jerks back. "No."

"No?" Eliot asks, looking equal parts disappointed and perplexed.

"I—I can't. No. I'm sorry," Quentin says, panicking, and then tears himself away before he can do something even _more_ embarrassing. _God_ , he almost thought— He shakes his head, staring at the floor as he heads for the stairs so that his hair falls in front of his face. He shuts himself in his room and focuses on deep, even breaths for a while, telling himself this was a disaster that he averted.

***

The next day, Quentin psyches himself up before heading downstairs. He's determined to make things right, to explain that he doesn't do hookups with friends, so that they can clear the air and go back to normal as soon as possible. Part of him is wondering if Eliot will even care to hear it; he might already be over the whole thing.

He finds Eliot lying dramatically on one of the couches with a pillow over his head. "El? Are you okay?"

"Peachy," Eliot says, reaching for the pillow and tossing it aside. Quentin swallows. He doesn't _look_ 'peachy'. He looks less put together than Quentin has ever seen him—his button-down wrinkled, his hair tousled, and an exhaustion in his eyes that can't be ignored.

"Right, well. I didn't mean to interrupt your nap. I just—I wanted to say sorry."

Eliot laughs harshly, then immediately winces at the sound. "I get it, Q. You wanna be fucked, just not by me. One rejection when I _wasn't_ hungover was enough."

"It wasn't a _rejection_ ," Quentin says, trying to find the right words. "I mean, I didn't mean—I just wanted to _clarify_ —"

"You're trawling Brakebills for the biggest dick, but now that you've found it you're turning it down. That's pretty much the definition of a rejection," Eliot says, sounding more sad than bitter.

Quentin feels desperate to clarify. He can't have forced himself to walk away and stilllose Eliot over this anyway. "I'd love to say that we could be friends with benefits, like— _truly_ , I wish that was something I could do. But it's just—not. It would be _amazing_ , but I just—I think it would break me."

Eliot goes very still and narrows his eyes at Quentin. " _What_ would break you?"

Quentin fidgets. He probably could have phrased that better. But it's all practically out there already, right? Once Eliot sobers up enough to think straight he's gonna _know_ the extent of Quentin's crush. And even if he doesn't, Margo already knows, and that's practically the same thing. "Seeing you with other guys, knowing what I was missing."

Eliot sits up quickly, then groans, holding a hand to his temple. "Oh god, no, okay," he says, lying back down. "You're gonna have to come to me with this one."

"Um."

"Just sit here, I promise not to pounce on you."

Quentin nudges him up and sits so that Eliot's head is resting on his lap. He only realizes a few seconds later from Eliot's confused look and how he'd scrunched up his legs that he was probably supposed to sit on the other end of the couch. But Eliot looks content now, his eyes closed and a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Okay, I'm gonna hit you with a hypothetical."

"Okay."

Eliot takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Last night, instead of asking you to go upstairs, if I had asked you to dinner. What would you have said?"

Quentin frowns. "We were at a party. It was, like, well on its way to midnight—"

"On a _date_ , Q."

"Oh. Um, I dunno." He tries to think back to that moment, when his lips were still tingling from Eliot's kiss, and Eliot's eyes were so intent on him. Isn't that what he'd been hoping? That it was the start of something real? If Eliot had asked him out, he wouldn't have hesitated.

"It's just hypothetical," Eliot assures him.

Quentin doesn't really understand how that makes a difference, but he feels like it's important he plays along. "Yeah, I mean, hypothetically I'd say yes."

Eliot hums. His eyes are still closed, his expression serious, like he's thinking hard about something. "What if I'd asked the week before?"

"At last week's party?" Eliot makes a noise of assent. Quentin shrugs. "Same answer, I guess. Hypothetically."

"Are you sure?" Eliot asks, and the weight of the question has Quentin thinking back on that night.

Quentin hadn't been in much of a mood to party. He'd made a fool of himself earlier in the day during PA when he'd flubbed a spell and created a stormcloud that followed him around for an hour. He thought about skipping the party altogether, but in the end he decided to brave it long enough to grab a drink or three, enough to drown his sorrows and hopefully make him sleepy enough to make his excuses and start fresh the next day.

That plan didn't last long, though, because when Eliot made him his second drink, he carried it off with him, expecting Quentin to follow—and Quentin had. The next thing Quentin knew, he was part of a group, dancing and laughing, sipping on his drink whenever he felt too awkward or he'd accidentally stared at Eliot too long. He forgot to feel out of place before long, and he had a great time. He noticed later when Eliot found his guy of the week and disappeared, but other than that sharp moment of jealousy, he'd really enjoyed himself. If that last part hadn't happened, if Eliot had asked him out— _to dinner_ , maybe the next night—fuck, he would've been elated.

He clears his throat, wondering if he's taken too long to answer. "No, yeah. I'm sure," he says, desperately trying to sound casual.

Eliot nods, sitting up. "Alright, stay here. I'm gonna go make one of those god-awful hangover cures that are worse than being hungover, because I want to be clear-headed for this next part."

Quentin waits, fiddling with the fringe on the pillow and trying to get his heart to stop racing. This doesn't _mean_ anything, necessarily. Eliot is pretty adamant that it's all hypothetical. Quentin should probably make sure they get to the point before it goes too far and he's _really_ disappointed.

Before Quentin has too long to get lost in his thoughts, Eliot returns, eyes brighter—and did he fix his hair while he was gone? He sits next to Quentin on the couch, close enough that their knees are pressed together. "So this is me, asking you out. We're not being hypothetical anymore."

Quentin breathes in sharply. "Eliot. You don't have to do this."

Eliot studies him for a moment. "Okay, I'm gonna get deep with you for a moment, so bear with me. I'm not so good at this part." He purses his lips, then gives a short nod before continuing. "Honestly, I thought you didn't want me. At best, I thought you just wanted to fuck me. If I'd thought otherwise—I would've asked you out weeks ago—maybe months." He sighs. "I know I have a reputation, but just because I've been known to hook up with a different person every week doesn't mean that's what I prefer. Not if there's something better on offer. Something… with promise."

 _God_ , it's everything Quentin wants to hear, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind still has doubts. "You really think you'd be happy dating just me? You wouldn't get bored?"

Eliot laughs, but it dissipates when he sees that Quentin is serious. "Q, I already have more fun with you than I've had with all of my past hookups combined outside of the bedroom." He shakes his head, looking back at Quentin with undeniable affection. "You should tell me whoever made you believe that you're boring, and I'll dangle them off the Observatory balcony by their ankles until they beg for mercy."

Quentin laughs. "I appreciate that, but um. It probably wouldn't help my anxiety." He fidgets with the pillow in his lap some more, and then kicks himself for being so slow. "It wasn't really a question, but um. My answer is yes. To you asking me out. I mean, my answer is pretty much _fuck yes_ , it's everything I've wanted for—a while."

Eliot's hand reaches out to cover his, stilling his fidgeting fingers. Quentin looks up to see Eliot leaning in, smiling, and the next thing he knows they're kissing again. It's as good as last night— _better_ , because he knows Eliot means it. Before long, Eliot's tongue slides into Quentin's mouth, and Quentin tosses the pillow aside, moving into Eliot's lap so he can get a better angle. Eliot's fingers feel amazing over his jaw, against his hip where they've slid under Quentin's shirt. Quentin starts imagining where else they could go, and he has to break the kiss.

"So um, now that we've established we're dating, like. We don't have to actually go on the date first, right?"

Eliot stares back at him, mouth hanging open, pupils blown. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want you to fuck me, like now, but if that's gonna change anything we just decided then I can wait."

"Fuck," Eliot says, closing his eyes and biting his lip. Quentin knows that he's already turned on, he can _feel_ it, but he doesn't want to push too hard. Finally, Eliot nods, his cheeks slightly tinted in a blush. "Okay, but when the grandkids ask about our first date, _you_ have to be the one to tell them."

"Shut the fuck up," Quentin says, standing and tugging him toward the stairs.

Quentin pauses outside of his own room, but Eliot keeps moving, tugging Quentin along now. "Let's go to my room," Eliot says. "You have no idea how much I've fantasized about having you in my bed."

Quentin swallows as he follows Eliot over the second set of stairs to his attic room. It's starting to sink in now—this is _really happening_. As he feels the shimmer of the wards welcoming him into Eliot's room, his dick twitches in anticipation. He's been in here several times—studying, keeping Eliot company while he rearranges his closet, watching movies with Eliot and Margo on her bootleg laptop—but he never let himself think about anything like _this_. All of his fantasies had involved either Eliot in Quentin's room, or the two of them hooking up somewhere else, somewhere impossible—like the castle from the Fillory books.

They fall onto Eliot's bed seconds later, picking up where they left off, making out and letting their hands explore further underneath clothes now that they're in the privacy of Eliot's room. It doesn't take long for them to strip out of their shirts, and Quentin dips his fingers past the band of Eliot's pants, thinking of losing more clothes. He can _feel_ Eliot's dick against his thigh, and it's driving him slightly crazy. He pulls out of the kiss, working up to asking to see it, but Eliot speaks up before he can find the words.

"Fuck, you get me so worked up. Do you know how many mediocre hookups I've had because I got horny watching you?"

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Bullshit."

"I'm serious. The way you chew on your bottom lip while you read, how you talk with your hands." Eliot shakes his head. "I can't believe you don't know how hot you are." He sits up, rubbing his hands over Quentin's thighs. "How much I've wanted you."

Quentin swallows, undone by the sincerity in Eliot's gaze. "I was so sure you weren't interested. I thought—this is so stupid. But there was some point when I thought, if it hasn't happened by now, it's not gonna. And then I thought, y'know, good. Because our friendship would probably never recover."

"It's not stupid," Eliot says softly, moving back in to kiss him sweetly. "For what it's worth, 'our friendship would never recover' is exactly why it didn't happen. Not until Margo made me believe I had a shot."

"It _is_ stupid," Quentin insists, sliding his hands down over Eliot's ass and urging him closer. "We could've been doing this _months_ ago."

Eliot obliges him and rocks up against him, smirking. Quentin has to swallow back a moan. "You're not wrong. But I'm kinda into the story that we got together because you were searching for the biggest dick in all of Brakebills."

"That still hasn't been proven," Quentin grouses.

"In time," Eliot promises, his fingers going to Quentin's fly. "I wanna get my mouth on you."

"Yeah," Quentin says with a hint of a whine. Eliot doesn't waste time, unzipping and pushing Quentin's boxers and jeans down his thighs, leaning in to press a kiss to the base of his dick. Quentin focuses on his breathing so he doesn't make a fool of himself, but the picture of Eliot between his legs is almost too much. " _Fuck_ , Eliot."

"You're right," Eliot says, sitting back. "We should get you naked so I can really get comfortable."

"Maybe we should both get naked," Quentin says as Eliot starts pulling at his jeans, but Eliot just laughs.

"Don't rush it, baby." Quentin's breath catches at the endearment, and he forgets what he was complaining about. Eliot spreads Quentin's legs apart and settles between them, fingers tracing out the tut Quentin has done on himself for cleaning, but the movements seem so much more _sensual_ when Eliot's fingers move through them. He goes on to the protection tut as well, and Quentin tries not to squirm as the magic settles over him. Satisfied with his work, Eliot settles his hands on the inside of Quentin's thighs, thumbs rubbing over the sensitive skin. "God, Q. You're so fucking gorgeous."

" _Please_ , El," Quentin says, not knowing how to respond to the compliment. But Eliot has mercy on him, scooting down the bed and taking Quentin's cock in hand, licking along the underside. Quentin moans as Eliot lowers his mouth over the head, sucking lightly. _God_ , they're only just getting started.

It's no surprise that Eliot is absolutely _stellar_ at sucking cock. He sinks down on Quentin's cock with a perfect, exquisite heat, taking him in further than Quentin would have expected and then _moving_ , creating an amazing slide that Quentin can't help but push into. Eliot takes it all without complaint, practically urging Quentin to move with him, and Quentin gets lost in the rush of it.

He's so caught up in the heat of Eliot's mouth that when Eliot presses a spell-slicked finger against his hole, he doesn't see it coming. He yelps, face instantly heating at the embarrassing noise, but Eliot moans over his dick, seeming to like it. His finger teases against Quentin's rim as he continues to move over his cock, and suddenly it's all Quentin can think about.

"Yeah, please," he says, his breath coming fast. "Want you inside me."

Eliot moans again, and Quentin can feel it throughout his entire body. That slicked finger presses inside a moment later, and Quentin can't help but clench down on it, rock down onto it, eager and suddenly shameless. He forces himself to relax, to show Eliot how well he can take it, but he's well aware of the noises he's making, all desperation and unintelligible begging.

One finger gradually becomes two, and Quentin is overwhelmed between how good Eliot is making him feel and anticipation for what's to come. " _Aah_ , El, you've gotta—gotta stop. I don't wanna come yet; it's too good—"

Eliot pulls off of Quentin's dick, but leaves his fingers inside, thank _god_. Quentin pulls on Eliot's shoulder to guide him up, to get him close enough to kiss, and he whimpers against Eliot's mouth as his fingers continue to work him open. "Is this okay?" Eliot asks huskily, the deep register of his voice only turning Quentin on more.

"Fuck yeah," Quentin says, clearing his throat and doing his best to clear his head. "Just—I don't wanna beg. But I really wanna see you now, unless you plan on torturing me some more. Somehow I doubt you normally hesitate to get naked."

"I don't mind if you beg," Eliot says, grinning widely. But he pulls his hand back—Quentin makes a tiny noise at the loss—and reaches for his own fly.

"No," Quentin says quickly. "Let me?"

Eliot nods, stretching his legs out next to Quentin and leaning back to rest his weight on his hands. Quentin runs his hand over the big, obvious bulge of Eliot's cock for a second, appreciating the groan it pulls from Eliot's lips. He takes his time with the zipper, like he's unwrapping a present, and then he eases the pants off, running his hands down the long expanse of Eliot's legs until he passes over his ankles. He takes in the sight of Eliot, cock hard and _leaking_ enough to show through the fabric of his briefs. His skin is flushed, a red tint visible over his cheeks and spreading down, visible through his chest hair. And he's breathing hard, even still, even through this relative lull they've hit while Quentin takes his time with him. He moves forward to hook his fingers into Eliot's briefs, meeting his gaze. "Worried I won't live up to the hype?" Eliot quips.

"Not possible," Quentin says, and slides the underwear down and off.

Eliot's cock definitely lives up to the hype. It _exceeds_ the hype. Quentin's mouth is already watering just thinking about sinking down on it, how easily it will fill his mouth when he sucks him down. He's not quite as long as Quentin's most ridiculous dildo, but he's _big_ —enough to have Quentin clenching involuntarily as he thinks about Eliot sliding home inside of him.

" _Fuck_ , El," Quentin says, reaching out to wrap his hand around the base, fascinated by how huge it looks in his hand. He lifts his other hand to slide over the wetness at Eliot's tip, using it to slick him up as he starts stroking him with two hands. "I wanna suck you," he says, unable to help himself.

Eliot moans, fucking up into Quentin's grip. "Fuck, that sounds so good. But— _ahh_ —if you want me to fuck you, we should probably table that for next time. You've already got me so worked up."

"Right," Quentin says, entirely distracted by the movement of Eliot's hips, the slide of his cock in his hands. By the time he makes sense of Eliot's words, it's too late to express his disbelief without making it awkward, but not too late to be affected by it. His mind conjures up a vivid image of Eliot trying to hold back, clutching at Quentin's hair when he can't wait any longer and comes down his throat. "Oh fuck," Quentin says, moving one hand away from Eliot so he can touch himself, easing some of the desperation he suddenly feels.

"Lie back," Eliot says, folding his legs back and sitting up. Quentin rubs his thumb steadily over the head of Eliot's cock before he lets go, just to see the way Eliot bites his lip and his eyes flutter closed for a moment. Satisfied, he moves back to his previous position, spreading his legs before Eliot gets a chance to settle between them. "Mm, eager, aren't you? You sure you're still up for it?"

Quentin huffs. "Don't I look like I'm still up for it?" he says, stroking himself slowly.

Eliot leans over him, holding himself up with a hand just to the left on Quentin's shoulder, and Quentin's breath catches at the sweetness of his smile just before he presses down for a kiss. The kiss is short but far from chaste, with the swipe of Eliot's tongue inside his mouth making all sorts of promises before he pulls away. "Just checking," Eliot murmurs.

Eliot sits back on his haunches, and when he slides back inside Quentin with two fingers, something settles in Quentin's chest. Eliot's other hand is heavy against his hip, and he's hit with the calming idea that Eliot has got him now. He gives into the impulse to close his eyes, savoring the stretch as Eliot works him open.

"Look at you," Eliot says once Quentin has adjusted to three, his voice smooth as silk. "You take my fingers so well. I can't wait to get inside you, feel you clench down on my cock. _Fuck_ , Q. I can see how much you want it."

Quentin whines, grinding down on Eliot's fingers, further proving his point. But he doesn't care how needy he seems, not when he's this close to having Eliot, to showing him _exactly_ how good they can be together. Eliot steadies his movements with a firm pressure against his hip, pulling out his fingers and then coming back with _more_ , _god_ , Quentin can picture the sight of his hand almost disappearing entirely inside of him.

"That's so good, shh, I've got you," Eliot says, and only then does Quentin realize the needy sounds he's making. "Just relax. You're gonna feel so good, baby."

He _already_ feels so good, and he mumbles something to the effect, trying to calm down at Eliot's insistence. He needs to rein it in, he knows, to wait until Eliot is inside him so he can make it good for _both_ of them. "C'mon, El," he whines, resting his hand over Eliot's on his hip. "I _want_ you."

Eliot shifts his hand to slot their fingers together. "I know, baby. You're almost ready. Just breathe for me."

Eliot rests his free hand on the sensitive part of Quentin's inner thigh as he pulls his fingers out, the touch grounding Quentin as Eliot slicks up his cock with the lube spell. Quentin whines at the emptiness, but then Eliot's cock is there, not yet pushing in but _there_ , an obvious presence that has him keening with anticipation. "Please," he says, and then there's the pleasant burn of a stretch as Eliot's cock pushes into him. "Oh fuck. _Yeah_. Yes," he breathes.

"Jesus, Q," Eliot says, his hand flexing over Quentin's thigh. He huffs out a breathy laugh, and Quentin lifts his head to see the combination of blush and smile lighting up his face. "You feel even better than I imagined."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Quentin answers, letting his head drop back again as he shifts his hips. " _More_."

Eliot takes his time, far past the limits of Quentin's patience, and Quentin _knows_ he can't be all the way inside when he starts fucking him. It's hard to complain, though, with the desperate little noises falling from Eliot's lips as he fills Quentin so beautifully with every thrust inside.

"C'mon, _deeper_ ," Quentin pleads eventually, pressing his heels into Eliot's back and making him falter his rhythm.

"I don't wanna hurt you," Eliot says, his voice as rough as his breathing.

"You won't. You _know_ how much I want it," Quentin says, grinding down.

"Okay, I hear you," Eliot says with another little laugh. He shifts forward, holding himself above Quentin, driving in deeper with every thrust as they hold each other's gaze, too far for a kiss, but close enough to hear every hitch in each other's breath.

"Yeah, c'mon," Quentin breathes out, barely more than a whisper, and with a few more strokes, he can feel Eliot slide in fully, his hips pressing tight against Quentin's thighs. Quentin gives in to the moan at the back of his throat, digging his heels in and clenching down, and then Eliot is pinning him down, no longer able to hold himself up. Quentin doesn't give him a chance to lift back up, wrapping his arms around Eliot's back and holding him there, reveling in the feeling of being _full_ , of Eliot _surrounding_ him. "That's it," Quentin says, the words so reverent they sound like a prayer. "Fuck, no one's ever felt this good."

Eliot exhales sharply, and Quentin realizes it was a laugh as Eliot turns his head to press a kiss to Quentin's temple. "That's exactly what I was thinking," Eliot intones, a poor imitation of Quentin's cadence, but it makes Quentin smile. Quentin lets him go this time when he pushes up on his hands, and _god_ , it's fucking _unreal_ when he starts fucking him again. He's never felt this full, never been able to get _lost_ in the pleasure of it, and it's _so much better_ with Eliot, his punched out grunts telling Quentin that he's not alone in feeling this good.

He pushes himself out his haze, clutching on to that idea of making it good for Eliot. "Can we switch?" he manages, the words coming out rough as Eliot drives into him. "I wanna ride you."

" _Fuck_ , Q. Yeah," Eliot says, tilting his head back, making no move to slow down as he continues to work his hips.

"You have to let me up first," Quentin says, grinning.

"Sorry," Eliot says, his answering grin not at all repentant. He slows down and pulls out, lowering his weight onto Quentin again but wrapping his arms around him this time before rolling them both over, pulling Quentin on top of him as he settles on his back.

They kiss haphazardly, both of them ridiculously turned on, but Quentin wants to make this last, and he's sure Eliot does too. It's not just that Eliot is sexy—which he _is_ , ridiculously so—but Quentin is having so much _fun_ with him, the two of them sharing smiles and laughs even through the haze of arousal.

Quentin kisses him until he has to lift up to take a breath, and then he keeps moving, sitting up to get them back on task. He straddles Eliot's hips, his muscles protesting slightly at the new arrangement, but easing as he settles. "Ready for me?" he asks, smiling down at Eliot.

"Always," Eliot says, reaching out to grip Quentin's hips.

Quentin stretches up on his knees, reaching behind to stroke Eliot's cock and line up with it. He nudges the head against his entrance and guides him in, clenching around the head while he stares, mesmerized, at Eliot's mouth open on a moan. Taking a breath in, he shifts his hips and then lowers down, sinking down over Eliot's length in one smooth motion and joining him in his moan.

He leans forward with his hands on Eliot's chest, loving the slide of Eliot's cock as he rocks back and forth. Quentin tosses his hair out of his face, wanting to see the wrecked look on Eliot's face as he clenches down around him. "Fuck yeah," Eliot says, moving one hand off Quentin's hip to reach for his cock. Quentin whines, the touch almost overwhelming after so much buildup, but he tries to focus on moving with Eliot, getting him there. Before long, Eliot is snapping his hips up to meet him as Quentin bounces on his cock, both of them moaning uncontrollably.

" _Fuck_ , I'm close," Quentin says when he can't fight it any longer, when every stroke of Eliot's hand over his dick and every slide of his cock inside Quentin makes him feel like he's gonna explode.

"Me too," Eliot says, speeding up the movement of his hand. "Please, Q. I want you to come. Wanna _feel_ it."

Which is all it takes to have Quentin toppling over the edge, his orgasm slamming through his body as he comes over Eliot's chest, settling on his knees, clenching over Eliot's cock as it works inside him in short, increasingly desperate strokes.

Waves of pleasure wash over him, punctuated by Eliot's frantic movements. "Oh god, oh _fuck yeah_ ," Eliot says, his voice practically a growl, and Quentin rocks his hips as Eliot arches his back and comes, a reverent curse on his lips.

Quentin stays like that, working his hips slightly, until he's too oversensitive to handle it. He lifts off of Eliot's cock and collapses down onto his side, the both of them completely spent. "Feels like I just ran a marathon," Quentin mumbles as Eliot presses a kiss to his temple, working his fingers in a tut to clean them both up. His muscles are firing now that his heart rate is slowing down, and he knows he'll have a pleasant ache in them for the next day at least.

"More fun than a sprint," Eliot says, smoothing a hand over Quentin's back. "Fuck, that was amazing. _You're_ amazing."

 _I'm so into you, it's ridiculous_ , Quentin thinks but doesn't say. Instead, he sighs happily and says something a little less weighted. "I'm so happy I get to date you."

Eliot grins. "Wait 'til you see what I have in mind for our _second_ date."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


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